


On the Edge of the Night (I'll Run to You)

by Puniyo



Series: The Chosen One [4]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Eliott goes to therapy, Fluff and Angst, Lucas is a med student, M/M, Slow Burn (Sort Of), Stream of Consciousness, alternative universe, change of POV, each of them have their share of problems, elements of the canon, mention of depression, mention of manic episodes, mention of therapy and medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-02 12:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: There is an old saying that personal and professional spheres should never mingle and Lucas is keen in honoring this.ORLucas is an intern in a psychotherapy clinic who catches the attention of the golden hair stranger with ocean eyes - Eliott.





	1. Part I - It's Your Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I absolutely suck at writing summaries and will probably change that once I feel more inspired for it. I had this piece planned for quite some time, the idea of Lucas and Eliott meeting in another universe where Lucas'insecurities and Eliott's MI is known right from the start and their journey in reconciling these both views. 
> 
> I am no expert in psychotherapy though I'm familiar with the jargon but this is not a technical piece and rather an exploration of their individual minds so there will be constant changes in POV. Please read the tags before venturing into this piece (which I don't plan to make too long, but let's see). 
> 
> Feedback and comments are always appreciated and I love you all in this fandom. A big yay for season 5 that is coming!
> 
> Disclaimer: all the ideas in this piece are pure fiction and any resemblance with real life events are pure coincidence or from the author's experience.
> 
> Title adapted from the lyrics of Lea Michele's 'Run to You' (which fit this piece quite well to be honest).

**Lundi, 14:19**

 

‘Mr. Lallemant, is it?’

He nods apologetically with his head, his hair slightly disheveled, a few strands protruding into different directions, and a single drop of sweat trailing down his temple to his jaw. He answers quickly, his lips forming the affirmative monosyllable as he adjusts the lapels of his cobalt blazer, the white inner shirt already clinging to his back, and he hopes his voice sounds as normal as possible.

‘Late on your first day, what a cliché Mr. Lallemant.’ The woman behind the reception counter reminds him of Madame Rigaux, his biology teacher during his time on the _lycée_ , who never wore a blouse fit to the season and had a luxurious collection of skirts of tablecloth patterns similar to the ones he remembers adorning the dinners of grandma Lallemant.

‘Please call me Lucas.’

‘As I was saying, _Mr. Lallemant_ ,’ the photograph on the staff identification card hung around her neck was probably taken a century ago, on her maiden days, and Lucas takes a mental note to remember the string of letters at the bottom, _Marie Genève_ , the same spelling as the Swiss city, senior nurse, ‘punctuality might not be written in your contract but we expect your clock to move faster than ours. Spare me of the old man and the traffic lights, or your neighbor’s dog that ate your keys. There are rules, Mr. Lallemant, and you either respect them or someone else will.’

He drops his head, the _I am sorry_ leaving his mouth almost immediately, almost as if his mind is automatically programmed to reply all his actions with these three words. His cheeks flare with a light shade of pink, embarrassment blending with anger, distilling and boiling underneath his skin.

‘Now that I’ve introduced myself,’ the woman hasn’t but there isn’t much that he wishes to hear anymore, her sausage fingers adjusting the crimson frame of her glasses while her other hand plays with the bare cross falling over the unbuttoned collar of her white uniform coat, ‘I hope you know who you were assigned to because our internet system is down this afternoon. Annual maintenance, you see.’

Lucas scrambles through the pages of his notebook, a handmade one with tiny hedgehogs drawn and painted on the spine and peeking on the corners of the back cover, a rarity that he had found buried under a pile of other industrial, dull journals and writing pads on a street fair last month, signed with a single capital E on the ribbon bookmark. He never found out who the artist was and neither did the young boy selling those knew who had such a passion for the thorny animal.

‘Dr. Alaoui of the–’

‘Who calls me?’

He would say it was magic if he had not noticed the shadow of another silhouette materializing silently next to him. Another figure in white, an orange tie constricting his throat that unexpectedly matched with the chocolate brown curls, and a smile from ear to ear, a man caught between childhood and years of maturity.

Lucas can’t help but return the smile.

‘Dr. Alaoui, here’s your new intern. The one that was supposed to have arrived 34 minutes ago.’

She might as well supply the count of the seconds.

‘I am sorry Dr. Alaoui. I should have warned the clinic that I was going–’, he extends his hand but the new stranger is already squeezing his shoulder in a calming massage.

‘Sofiane. Sofiane is much better. One gets really tired of hearing titles around here all the time.’ The long, drawn sigh from the nurse seems to widen the grin on his face even more and he signs a few loose sheets on the colored paper folders tucked under his arm. ‘Lucas, wasn’t it? It’s good that you just came, the meeting took way longer than we all wanted so you would have had to wait. And because of it, I had to skip lunch,’ he talks as if he was telling stories to a kindergarten class, a few sounds stressed here and there, hands all over the place (like how he was explaining now that today was green bell pepper omelet with leek quiche, his favorites), and Lucas remembers that his specialty is pediatrics, ‘so what do you say about a coffee in the cafeteria? I can show you around too if you have time.’

‘That would be lovely, Dr. Alaoui.’

‘Sofiane.’

‘Dr. Sofiane.’

‘ _Sofiane_.’

He nods, still penitent, but he laughs at the same time, a sense of relief filling his lungs. ‘ _Sofiane_.’

Lucas would be lying if he said it was his first time at _La Grâce Clinique_ , the number of times he had stepped beyond the yellow raised pavement tiles on the south entrance already forgotten since his mother had been admitted when he started attending college. The words of the doctor in charge those years ago still echo in his head, how her stay was akin to an extended holiday in a resort away from the bustling streets of downtown Paris, how she would return home once she learned how to take the minuscule white pills every day after meals. Lucas blames no one for the fact that she is still there, her room on the top floor that smelled of freshly brew jasmine tea and a few potted leaves which he never bothered to find out the names that he would buy on the florist on his way to the subway.

Sofiane points to the different rooms as they scan through the different corridors, how easy is to get lost in them, after an almost instant ride on the elevator, the cover of Beethoven’s _Fur Elise_ always the same inside the claustrophobic compartment, and Lucas feigns surprise about the various sections coded with letters and colors, adult psychiatry, children’s counselling, outpatient precinct, endocrinology treatments, memory and sleep laboratories, when he already knew the blueprint of the whole clinic as if his own bedroom was in one of the wards. He doesn’t tell his mentor that he was late because his mother insisted that they read a few psalms of the Bible together until she fell asleep, that the lift on the right was constantly stuck with members of the staff in an imitation of canned sardines and that the one on the left had broken down since morning. He doesn’t tell Sofiane either that he had to rush through the stairs in the swiftest sprint of his life, a few steps carelessly skipped, how he bumped into a man in a brown jacket and how rude he was for not even turning back and apologizing for his negligent dive that could have sent them both down in an avalanche of broken limbs and bones.

‘What do you think, Lucas?’

His fingers had been stirring the spoon of his coffee, the foam of his expresso already dissipated. ‘Sorry, say again?’

‘Life is tough, isn’t it?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Studying and working. You know college stuff, papers, case studies. I’ve been there too.’ The older man pours a dash of milk onto his cup, the white liquid almost spilling to the surface of the table. ‘I read your CV before accepting you. You work in a nursery, right? You were the only candidate who wanted to work with these little devils.’ It wasn’t a single packet of brown sugar but two as well.

‘Yeah, it’s a small orphanage actually. It’s only part-time but it does help with the bills.’ If Lucas was honest with himself too, his financial situation would be best described as stable. Positively stable. Positively more than stable.

When his parents officialized their divorce on his senior year of high school, Lucas had been fortunate for Manon to have offered her room in the shared flat since his father barely deposited _anything_ on his bank account. Perhaps it was divine grace, a slap from fate, or because he finally realized he still had leftovers of a humane consciousness, papa Lallemant made an effort to at least have lunch with his son once a month, sometimes twice when he was less busy with his business trips abroad, and Lucas too made an effort to accept that having a less present father was better than having none. And he did enjoy their meals, though he never said so vocally. In the beginning their discussions were only about the possible ingredients in the dishes on the menus of the restaurants they frequented, then how the weather always seemed to be too windy or showering when they agreed to meet on a café by the park next to Lucas’ university. They were two strangers sitting at the same table, ordering the same drinks, and wishing to leave after all the formalities.

When tears spilled from his face last winter, just before Christmas’s Eve, when his boyfriend had chosen the day they had agreed to decorate their pine tree and exchange gifts, kisses and some other bodily fluids, to terminate their relationship on irreconcilable differences as in legal protocols, his father kept quiet the whole dinner hour while running a hand through his son’s hiccoughing back. They had never touched anything about his sexual orientation, nothing, the word _homosexual_ a taboo in their shared vocabulary, but the older man smiled in commiseration.

‘Things will be okay, son. He was not meant to be. Someone will in the future. You deserve it, Lucas.’

Words have power and for once Lucas listened to them properly, the barely audible _thank you papa_ leaking from his vocal cords. He refused the monthly cheques just as he did since he entered college and applied for multiple shifts in wherever and whoever was hiring someone who was not picky with work, but his father insisted in paying for his mother’s treatments and therapy, and part of his tuition fees, citing it as his obligation, and Lucas did not dismiss it. They were still walking in a tightrope, each step in danger of falling down the abyss, but while the valley between them had not narrowed, the rope was becoming thicker and stronger. If his father asked him about why he liked boys, he would answer sincerely what attracted him. If his father would say something stupid, he would patiently educate him. If his father booked a table for three in a fancy restaurant, Lucas would iron one of his best shirts and genuinely be happy for the woman sitting across him.

When Manon and Lisa both moved out, the girls suddenly wanting to have an apartment where they could freely walk in their underwear and laced bras, Mika invited his boyfriend (which earned a huge grasp from all the tenants of the building) to occupy the free room. It was such a surprise when the knight in the shining Porsche arrived with his designer bags, his voice a little too obnoxious for the neighbors (especially when they were adventurous during sex, which was basically all the time), his straightforward attitude enraging a few of the pious widows and grandfathers of a football team downstairs. His name was also Lukas, with a K he insisted all the time, and his sense of humor was for a selected educated audience, but he and Mika were so in love Lucas thought they might change the flat’s wallpaper with heart-shaped ones and he was seriously becoming sick of all the cheesy romantic songs, ‘my heart will not go on without you pumpkin’, ‘how deep is your hole’, ‘it’s love, my love’, ‘I know but I want to know that too’, ‘I’ll make love to you’, ‘right now?’, ‘yes, right here waiting for you’, that they almost burned the kitchen if he had not turned off the Bluetooth speaker playing over the alarm of the oven.

‘You are just jealous, Lucas. Jealous.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Come here baby.’

‘Hey!’

And the other Lukas would hug him tightly until his bones cracked under his robust embrace. He liked Lukas a lot and he knew too that the other man thought of him as a younger brother, both baptized with the same name, ‘there are no coincidences in this world!’, and both disciples of medicine. Mika and Lukas never made him feel that he was an extra in the house, always cooking his share of the meals and keeping it in a Tupperware in the fridge whenever he was in a late shift, refilling his shampoo and conditioner because the brand he brought made his wild mane even more savage than it already was. Lukas would discuss with him the hypothetical case studies while Mika played the devil’s advocate. On the fateful Christmas night when the trio drowned themselves in cheap strawberry vodka, the taste of the fruit too sugary and fake, Lucas was zapping through the various channels when one of them was broadcasting a Japanese gay porn movie. Nothing special, he doesn’t remember the title or the faces of the actors, but Mika proposed a threesome as his hands were already unbuckling Lucas’ belt while his boyfriend’s lips were attached to his collarbone. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t turned on, the bulge on his briefs impossible to mask, but a wave of nausea hurled his stomach as he emptied all its content, unchewed food and bile, on the carpet and the next morning he woke up with one of the worst migraines of the millennium.

Thinking of his life now, Lucas realizes he had been quiet for a couple of minutes and staring at the milk swirls of Sofiane’s coffee.

‘Sorry, had a rough night.’

‘It’s fine.’ Nothing seemed to diminish the smile on the doctor’s face. ‘Life’s tough as I was saying.’

‘Yeah,’ he grimaces as he takes a sip of the lukewarm, bitter coffee, ‘it’s great that I have Imane to help with this placement.’

‘Imane?’ For the first time, since the reception until now at the cafeteria, that Sofiane drops his unbroken smile and he runs his thumb around the brim of his cup.

‘She’s one of my best friends. I wouldn’t be in med school if it wasn’t for her. She too was assigned to this place but I guess she already left.’ He glances at his phone, the incoming message from her as if he had just summoned her name, the short paragraph on his screen telling him that Alexia wanted to meet them tonight.

‘Do you live with her?’ The doctor realizes how personal the inquiry is and shakes his head, his curls stretched and pulled back by gravity. ‘Sorry, that was rude of me.’

‘No problem. She doesn’t tell me but I know that she lives with her boyfriend. He is doctor too apparently.’ Sofiane chokes on his self-customized latte and Lucas hands him the nearest napkin.

‘Sorry,’ the bout of cough finally subsides, ‘hotter than I imagined it would be.’ He points at the coffee obviously. The beeper on the pocket of his coat rings in intermittent monotones and he doesn’t even look at the memo, his hand already pressing the bottom on the side to silence it.

‘Breaks are not really breaks here too, right?’

‘That is probably the most important lesson you’ll learn today.’ They both laugh, unrestrained, a joke born in the moment and only between them. ‘Well Lucas, you can grab your schedule for this month with Marie, she is not that bad if you bribe her with the _mille-feuille_ they sell here. It’s from her favorite pastry shop, you see, and I’ve noticed that she prefers the cinnamon custard to the usual vanilla.’ He winks at Lucas as his eyes point at the display of sweets by the cashier, ‘This is not first placement, is it?’

‘No, it’s actually my last one.’

‘Congratulations then! Well, you will have to pass this one still. I’m a very strict…’, Sofiane ponders about his words with a serious face that soon morphs back into his trademark wide smile, ‘… supervisor. I don’t care about your tears.’

‘I’m not planning to shed any.’

‘Good.’ He squeezes Lucas’ shoulders, exactly the same way and with the same intensity as he did before. ‘Good. So on Thursday you can meet me directly on the youth counselling, where we passed by the–’

‘The wire sculpture on the fourth floor.’ Lucas spurts it out, almost absently, his excuse for his lateness ruined.

‘Quite the memory you have, Mr. Lallemant.’

‘No better than yours I believe, Dr. Alaoui.’

‘Sofiane, please.’

‘Lucas, please.’

Both men bump their fists as if they were estranged friends who hadn’t seen for ages and had miraculously spotted each other in the middle of the street. Lucas finally swallows the breath that had lodged on his throat, somehow not wanting people to know that his mother was one of the patients. It is not shame, he tells himself, he doesn’t want pity nor favoritism now that he is almost finishing his practicum. He takes the last sip of his coffee, completely chilled by now, the astringent burnt flavor accentuated and corroding the walls of his esophagus.

It is not shame, he tells himself.

It is not.

 

**Lundi, 15:21**

 

Just as all the other heads in the cafeteria, black hair in a bun, twin pigtails with gold scarf, the most beautiful shade of fuchsia for a hijab he has ever seen, start to desert the venue with their empty trails and crumbs-branded plates, Lucas pulls out his wallet and hands in a bill in exchange for two, not just one, layered pastry, heeding to Sofiane’s advice. It proves to be correct too when Marie almost devours the glazed strawberries on top of the flaky tier, sprinkled with icing sugar and caramel streaks. There were still a couple of sarcastic remarks, something about young people nowadays not keeping track of their belongings even with their state-of-the-art smartphones, but the kiss on his cheek in silent gratitude is tender, a peck of the Spring breeze upon the first sprouting seedlings.

With his schedule carefully stashed between a few other information sheets for bureaucratic formalities, he thinks it might be a good idea to tell his mother that he might be seeing her more frequently now. Perhaps it would make her happy, _happier_ he corrects himself, not just sitting by her bed reciting poems and stanzas and hymns, but also a walk to the courtyard for the blooming irises or even sharing a _mille-feuille_ , the one with the Lilliputian macaroons for garnish. Yes, that’s what he will do, the abrupt surge of courage filling his bones and twitching his muscles, and he turns away from the main entrance to the staff lift, hidden behind doors of apparently exclusive access but that were never locked, remembering about the vending machine on the way that always had treats not available in any other place around the city.

It is then when he first sees _him_ , a tall man standing in front of the transparent, glassy display, indecision clearly written on his forehead and his hips swaying to a rhythm only he could hear. There is nothing bizarre about his stance, just someone surveying all the options before regretting wasting a coin or two, but he can’t help to notice the pale exposed ankles that contrasted heavily with the nightly hues of his whole outfit, trainers, ragged jeans and hoodie all in black, his scarcely hunched shoulders, the hazelnut strands occasionally dipped in gold glitter that rivaled his own untamed hair. He has never seen him around, Lucas swallows dry suddenly, and he moves just a step to the side, he doesn’t know why, just an impulse to better absorb the profile of the living model, chiseled jaw, an infinitesimal blink, the long fingertips running through his lower lip, chapped but still in a timid pink.

Lucas swears he has never seen anyone more uncannily beautiful.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ The stranger must have seen his reflection on the screen and he turns to him, a quick curved line pressed between his lips, a halfway between irritation and surprise. ‘I don’t know what to take.’

If there was an award for the most awkward moment in one’s life, Lucas would have swept it from the hands of all other competitors, as he almost falters his posture, the vertigo hammering on his temples, when a pair of marine eyes, a kaleidoscope of teal and turquoise, meets his. Imane always told Lucas that he had the ability to read other people’s gazes because of his empathy and yet, right now, all he knows is that there is an ocean assaulting his nerves, threatening to drown him in its deepest trenches.

‘The 24 is not bad.’

‘Hmm?’

He quickly glances at the snacks behind the individual coils. ‘The one with the chocolate chips. It’s my favorite.’

‘If you say so.’

The fingers that tiptoed on the lip now plunge into the front pocket of his jeans, a silver chain across it, and the stranger counts the assorted tokens on the palm of his hand, not just reviewing their value but also the design of their tails, as if checking if they were real coins and not arcade currency. He is back to his bubble, Lucas finds it amusing, how the other man hovers above the numerical pad, the numbers transfigured into keys of a piano or a xylophone, pressing them only after a few good seconds, the digits ‘2’, ‘4’ and the round validation button, each option twice until the last two cereal bars fall into the drawer.

‘Ah _merde_!’ The high-pitched curse together with the abashed widening of his (beautiful) sight is both comic and endearing that Lucas almost coughs for containing his laughter. ‘Did you also want them?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not really. I can have the blueberry one.’

‘But chocolate is your favorite.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘What did you say then?’

Lucas opens his mouth but closes it immediately after when the taller man crosses his feet, almost losing balance, unable to keep quiet for an extra second. It is a full smile now, not as ample and broad as Sofiane’s, more contained, more restrained, a prelude of what he could further offer.

‘Fine,’ Lucas raises his hands in defeat, ‘the 24 is the best one but it’s not like you have just bought the whole machine. There is the white chocolate one,’ he points at the package one row above, though the stranger refuses to follow his directional guidance, focusing solely on his face, ‘the almond is too sweet but good for a quick energy rush. Then there is also the cranberry, the orange, the…’, Lucas stops when the model figure leans over the screen, his right shoulder supporting all his body weight, ‘… what?’

‘Freedom to choose, Hume would be proud of you.’

‘Locke too. So what is the problem?’ He is not trying to be defensive and yet the words vibrate from his vocal cords with a harshness that he wasn’t expecting. He regrets his tone in that same instant when the stranger drops his playful grin and gulps sharply.

‘Nothing. Nothing is wrong. But…’, he clutches the cereal bars in his hand tighter, the chocolate probably melting with the heat, ‘… not the options, isn’t it what it matters?’

‘What?’

‘Your choice, that’s what it matters.’

‘Can’t I have an alternative plan then? Just black and white?’

‘You can. Black, white, grey, the whole rainbow if you wish.’ The stranger turns around, fumbling his pockets again and he sighs of relief when he sees that he still has a brass coin. He quickly inserts it and he presses a random combination of digits this time. ‘So which one?’ He extends both hands, a different type of sweet on each palm, chocolate on his left, lemon on his right. ‘Which one will you choose?’

‘Is this a test? One of those personality quizzes you can do online?’

‘No.’ The taller man chuckles and Lucas mimics the same mirth. ‘What is it that you really want?’

There is no hesitation as Lucas seizes the oatmeal treat with chocolate flakes, his fingertips brushing gingerly the lines on the blue-eyed stranger’s palm, a feathery touch that makes them both flinch at the contact. The victorious smirk is almost arrogant but Lucas lets him indulge in the levity of the moment. ‘How much do I owe you?’

The shrug of shoulders and the motion of tucking an unruly golden strand behind his ears mask the mute _nothing_ on the taller man’s dry lips. He reaches for the rolled stick resting on his helix, which Lucas had not noticed before, the beauty of his features too distracting, and he tilts his head in direction of the frosted glass windowpane. ‘Do you have time for one cigarette?’

‘What do we have here, _Mr. Demaury_?’

The familiar voice of the head nurse anchors Lucas back to reality, his feet still glued to the same cream tiles and white grouts, his soul the one on another dimension, a parallel universe where he and the ‘choice’ stranger were the only inhabitants.

‘Marie!’ The timber of his voice has changed somehow, the same velvety palette of high frequencies and yet, at the same time, it doesn’t sound his, not the same one he heard just now, arguing about freedom. He almost dares to say it has a fake resonance. ‘Now the sun will die of jealousy because you shine brighter than he ever will.’

‘Don’t abuse your luck, Mr. Demaury.’ She slaps his elbow in jest, a mock caricature of hurt on his face. ‘What are you and _Lucas_ doing here? Aren’t you supposed to–’

‘ _Lucas_ and I…’, there is something in the way the syllables of his name roll from the lies and it makes Lucas’ heart skip a beat, ‘… we are planning to overthrow this place. Be kings and princes of this world!’

‘Your empire can wait then.’ The lady with the thick, vermilion-framed glasses confiscates the cigarette between his fingers and the stranger named Demaury pouts. A frown charmingly like a child. ‘Violation of smoke will cost you a lot.’

‘Please don’t tell him?’ Lucas feels an outsider watching the two-character act unfolding in front of his eyes, the hazelnut-haired man holding his hands in a sham prayer gesture.

‘Did I ever sell you to the tigers?’

‘You are the best Marie!’

And the stranger pretends to jump on her petite silhouette, latching a chaste kiss on her cheek instead. He grabs his brown jacket, forgotten on the potted cat palm, and he hops to the exit door, not before turning just slightly in Lucas’direction and winking at him.


	2. Part II – Sometimes Leaps Are Necessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Say Sofiane,’ Eliott thrusts the snack, his notebook, his keys, into his gear, together with the packet of tissues, the candy wrapper, a shrimp-sized crayon he magically salvages from his pockets, ‘who is Lucas?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, here's a change of POV. I'll try to keep these shifts balanced but I confess I love Eliott's POV too much, he is such a rich character with so much to explore, so I might be in his head more frequently. Who knows? 
> 
> Also, this is supposed to be the direct continuation of the previous chapter. It just took me longer to write this second part. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Lundi, 15:59**

 

The office smells nothing like the hospital cubicle rooms he has been too, the ones he really hates, the sterile antiseptic of alcohol and iodine fogging his nostrils, curdling at his gut, nauseating and sickening until he almost vomits the contents of his stomach, or the non-existent juices, the moment he sat on the plastic, pain-inducing benches. Now here, Eliott relishes on the subtle aroma of Moroccan spices, of dashes of cinnamon and clove buds as he leans on the cushioned armchair, eyes focused on the only darker spot on the ceiling, next to the smoke detector. It almost looks like a chocolate stain that some child had smeared when climbing to a parent’s shoulder just to see if the stars at the upper wall were real.

A blotch of chocolate.

The young man’s hand instinctively dives at the front pocket of his black hoodie, retrieving the forgotten cereal bar, his fingers tracing the crumbled packaging of _crunchy lemon_ , that he had shoved there when Marie interrupted them. He and the boy of spiked, wild brown hair, untamed strands of chestnut, sticking out on the sides and back of his head. The boy who didn’t want to make choices. He and _Lucas_.

Eliott quickly pulls out the small but thick sketchbook at the messenger bag by his feet, at least the first half of the pages already filled with scribbles and scraps cut from magazines, a few hedgehogs too, and he draws the sweet treat on the cream colored sheet, straight lines with charcoal pencil, shaded corners for depth, blurry edges for the oat flakes and swirls of caramel. He is so immersed in his art that he doesn’t notice Sofiane entering the room, nor closing the door behind him, only the tender hand that squeezes his shoulder through the cottony fabric.

He is not polite, he knows, but Eliott only nods in acknowledge of his arrival, eyes still fixated on the page, unable to stop until the rectangular snack is completed. He smiles sheepishly at the simple design, bottom lip caught in his teeth, and he mumbles a barely audible _sorry_ as the doctor pretends to peek at his sketch from where he is sitting.

‘Sorry.’ He repeats as he closes the notebook, the elastic band clasping the front cover. ‘We can start now.’

‘Do you still draw them?’

‘Hmm?’

Sofiane points at the closest frame to him, just beside the monitor of his computer. ‘The porcupines.’

‘It’s a _hedgehog_.’ Eliott corrects him as his cheeks heat up in a timid shade of pink. He confesses his earlier skills were way less refined and akin to abstract art, but the cute animal shouldn’t have been confounded for another one, of much larger size and elongated quills. Or so he thinks. Perhaps it would have been easier to be mistaken for a furry hairbrush or something. ‘I saw one today.’

‘H-here?’ The surprised stutter from the other man is almost comical.

‘In the corridor next to yours. He was pretty harmless.’ He adjusts his silhouette on the chair, legs crossed but he grounds both feet on the floor immediately after when Sofiane gestures him to do so. ‘He was just hungry, I guess.’

‘If you say so.’ The file with his name, printed in capital letters and decorated with miniature rockets and four-leaf clovers, is already on the table, as the doctor hands it for him to sign. Boring bureaucracies that neither of them liked. ‘How was your day, Eliott?’

He ponders for a few seconds before answering. ‘Normal. I think it was normal.’ The round bouquet of teal hydrangeas by the shelf next to the metronome has him tilting his head at the sudden remembrance in the morning. ‘Actually, I met someone today. Well, more like she came to me.’

‘An old acquaintance?’

‘No. I have seen her before, who hasn’t with her blue hair, but we have never talked with each other.’ It was a rather strange encounter now that he thinks of it, how he absently bumped into her on the campus, accidentally knocking over a collection of own recorded CDs of dance tunes and electronic remixes.

‘And why do you think this is special?’ Sofiane never breaks eye contact, even when his pen roams with an ease over the lined sheets of patient records.

‘It’s not. It’s just…’, Eliott takes a deep breath, ‘… I wasn’t supposed to go to the Academy today but I forgot the damn USB with the first storyboard on my locker, you know how Idriss has already been nagging me about it for ages, so I went there just before lunch, because I missed the first bus, and when I was leaving, this girl…’, he massages the bridge of his noise as if it would revive his memory, ‘… Alexia, yes Alexia, she invited me for a party at her place this Friday.’

‘You have always been popular, Mr. Demaury.’

‘It’s not like that.’ He throws a clean, crumpled tissue at Sofiane’s direction, the doctor raising his hands in mock defeat. ‘It’s for her friend, she says.’

‘For a friend?’

‘Yeah,’ he drops his gaze to his lap, knees pressed together and trembling slightly, ‘because of _Polaris_.’

‘What will you do about the invitation?’ It is only a shrug of shoulders and mute lips, a slightly longer strand of hair that falls on the downcast eyelashes, and a shaking hand that tucks it behind the ear. Sofiane drops his pen, shoving the folder aside. He only has bursting candies and lollipops on his drawers, and it would be childish offer those. ‘What is wrong, Eliott?’

‘Nothing.’ He pulls the long sleeves of his garment until they cover his wrists and over his thumbs, almost reaching the nails of his pink finger. He recoils in his seat, a boy back to his shell, smaller and smaller as the wands of the clock complete another rotation. ‘I don’t know. I’m just scared.’ He stretches his hand towards his friend, curled into a fist. ‘Will they ever see me as something more than just the painter, the director, the machine that produces…’

‘Eliott,’ he places his hand on top of the dejected boy’s one, brushing over the protruding knuckles of pale complexion, ‘if you open to people, you will see that some of them really care about you.’

‘I’m not ready.’

‘You are.’ Sofiane’s voice is reassuring, just like his gentle smile, his curls of sheep wool, a warmth that spreads to all that he touches. ‘Sometimes leaps are necessary. But you must not forget about the rope so you can pull yourself back if you fall into the well. You have her contact, right?’

Eliott nods, fetching his hand back as he slaps his cheeks gingerly for a bout of courage. A relieved yelp escapes his throat, somehow too high-pitched and not matched with his tall skeletal frame, and both men burst into laughter.

‘You have all the tools within you, Eliott. You are the one who chooses how to use them.’

‘You should have gone for ancient philosophy or theology instead of psychiatry.’

‘Tell you what, I really should have done that. It would have saved me hours and hours spent on negotiating with raccoons that don’t want to get out of their burrows.’ He types a string of words in the keyboard, the password for his operating system perhaps.

‘And leave me to that stone-faced broom on the trauma floor? Irresponsible aren’t we, Dr. Alaoui?’ He crosses his arms in feign annoyance.

‘Hey! The children love me.’

‘Don’t they all do?’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Demaury?’

‘Nothing.’ He bites back a chuckle, his worries slowly dissipating in the air around them, not thick anymore, the flavor of peppery ginger present again. His phone vibrates on the pocket of his vintage, ragged jeans, only once, not a call but an incoming message.

[Alexia, 16:26] Heeya! I forgot to tell you the address this morning. Please come, drinks are on us, unless you prefer something better than cheap vodka. Pretentious red wine is not allowed.

The text continues with a rather long street name and a shooting star emoticon, signed with a rainbow unicorn head, and he shoves the device back to the enclosure, making a mental note to reply to it later.

‘It’s been two months already with the new dosage.’ There are minuscule numbers reflected on Sofiane’s oak irises as he scans the data on the screen. ‘I have to schedule you a blood test, say, next week?’ What do you think of it?’

‘I only threw up once and I can still cook. I’ve felt worse.’

‘Have you skipped any day?’

He hesitates, foot tapping on the carpeted floor and fingernails charting the leather creases on the arm rest. ‘Once.’ He feels Sofiane’s gaze burning a hole on his skull and he takes a deep breath. ‘Twice actually. But because I had a deadline that week and… and I just forgot!’

‘ _Eliott_.’

‘I’m not lying.’ He is and he knows that the two of them can see through the farce of his pretty mask. He takes the pills but there are days where he is tired of them, tired of the bitter aftertaste on his tongue and the coarse sandpaper on his palate. There are days he sees them and he thinks of them as mint dragées and there are days he sees them and he flushes the etched granules down the toilet. ‘One in the morning before breakfast and one after dinner, a glass of water, full, and brush my teeth after. If you don’t trust me, trust Idriss.’

‘I trust you, Eliott.’ The counsellor switches off the hardware, a final signature on the file, and he closes that one too. ‘But I worry about you.’

‘I am _fine_.’ Besides an artist and a director, he too is an actor, one who is excellent at showing emotions and one who is mediocre at hiding them. He flashes a grin, teeth showing and eyes reduced to rice slits. He hunches down for his bag when the cereal bar is pressed to his navel, a déjà vu of an earlier time. ‘Say Sofiane,’ he thrusts the snack, his notebook, his keys, into his gear, together with the packet of tissues, the candy wrapper, a shrimp-sized crayon he magically salvages from his pockets, ‘who is Lucas?’

‘Lucas?’

‘Yes, the hedg–’, it almost slips with how natural the name of that young man rolls from his vocal cords. ‘I saw Marie speaking with a new face and already calling him without _Mr. Surname_. You know how long it took for me to be her _Eli_.’

‘Oh _Lucas_!’ The doctor waves his hand in a pendulum motion, laughing, ‘he has probably followed _your_ advice of the mille-feuille. He’s our new intern.’ He takes a sip of the lukewarm plain coffee on the _dark is not yet my favorite_ color mug, the grimace at the instant bitterness diluting his grin. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Nothing.’ Eliott buckles his bag around the collarbones and shoulder blades, and he tucks the chair to the meager depression in front of the table, already rushing to the door. ‘Nothing. It’s just childish curiosity.’

The occasion makes the thief and Eliott has no intention of pirating anything, but yet there is no one at the nurses’ desk when he drapes over the counter, like he always did so that his tall stature towered over Marie and whoever was assigned to duty that day (he thought it would be intimidating until the head nurse compared him to a hyperactive polar bear). He has no intention to spy, fate knows how much he hated when his parents were (still are) overprotective and rummaged over his belongings for anything that could trigger an episode, as if there was a magic formula to induce and stop these, and yet it is that name again, _Lucas Lallemant_ , printed on the top corner of a spreadsheet that catches his attention. Mardi, the square for tomorrow, is marked with a tick and the hours in such a Lilliputian font that he can’t read. The approaching footsteps has him almost jump and lose balance, even with both his feet well planted on the tiles. He walks away, erasing any traces of his harmless crime.

Mardi. Tomorrow. Mardi.

Eliott has no appointment tomorrow. But it doesn’t matter too.

All he needs is an excuse to have one.


End file.
